


Some Say He's A Ghost

by pure1magination



Category: Captain America (Movies), Phantom of the Opera - Lloyd Webber, The Avengers (Marvel Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Phantom of the Opera Fusion, Dancing and Singing, M/M, Multiple Universes Colliding, Past Character Death, Pining, Theatre
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-22
Updated: 2015-07-22
Packaged: 2018-04-10 17:24:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 10,659
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4400786
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pure1magination/pseuds/pure1magination
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Steve/Bucky Phantom of the Opera AU</p>
<p>Steve is Christine</p>
            </blockquote>





	Some Say He's A Ghost

There were some who thought Tony Stark had missed his calling in life. Sure, he was handsome, charismatic, and had a smile that could charm the whole room. And yeah, he definitely had the lungs for it. But there were some that were of the opinion that Tony had missed his calling in life when he became a famous opera singer. Tony, of course, loved proving them wrong. “No, it’s really gonna work this time, I’m telling you! I’ve cracked the code! This is gonna be revolutionary! Before you know it, everyone’s gonna be knocking down my door, demanding the copyright to this thing, but they are gonna be out of luck, because _this,_ my friend, is going to have my name all over it!” As Tony spoke, he bobbed and weaved through the crowd backstage, engaging anyone who would listen, proudly presenting what looked like a bottle of perfume.

He was currently brandishing said bottle in Sam Wilson’s face. “Um.. What is it?”

Tony beamed. “I’m glad you asked!” And so he launched into an animated speech about how this throat spray was better than any of the other throat sprays out there, how he’d poured hours of research into it, and it was going to work for _sure_ this time.

“Stark!” barked a stagehand. “Onstage!”

Tony grinned and mock-saluted everyone with his throat spray in-hand and proudly strutted onstage. He was clad in an extravagant red-and-gold outfit, gold flecks in his smartly trimmed facial hair. Tony absolutely commanded the stage. His voice was smooth and strong, his gestures perfectly on-beat. He was just about to launch into the refrain when the doors to the theatre opened and in walked three men, striding straight towards the stage.

The director turned around. The orchestra stopped.

Nick Fury, dressed all in black, the eyepatch ever-present over his left eye, prowled up the stairs and onto the stage. “I have an announcement to make,” he said loudly enough that everyone stopped what they were doing and stared straight at him. Two fumbling men in suits with graying hair came to an awkward stop just behind him.

“As you know,” Fury continued, “I am retiring.” He eyed everyone into submission. “These gentlemen are taking my old position as owner of the theatre, effective immediately. Gentlemen?” He turned to them.

The two men in gray-and-purple suits exchanged a glance. The one with straight hair smiled a little awkwardly and stepped forward. “Yeah, hi. I’m Clint Barton, and this is Bruce Banner.” He clapped his wavy-haired companion on the shoulder. “And we have a little surprise for you.”

“What’s going on?” Steve whispered, too short to see past the gathered crowd.

“New owners,” Sam whispered back. “Looks like they’re taking over for Fury.”

“What are they like?” Steve tried standing on-point, but he was still too short to see past the shoulders of those in front of him.

“About what you would expect,” Sam answered, watching the scene which Steve could not see.

“May we present,” Clint Barton said grandly, sweeping his arms aside, “The Viscount de Chagny.”

A man calmly climbed the stairs onto the stage. He smiled politely as Clint explained that he was their benefactor, and had donated a large sum of money after the success of their most recent play. The man laughed modestly. “It wasn’t that much.”

“What does he look like?” Steve whispered, trying to get a look at him.

“Good lookin’ dude,” Sam remarked casually.

The man who Steve couldn’t see said, with a charming smile, “I look forward to seeing your next performance,” addressing all of them.

“Shall we give him a sample?” wondered someone aloud.

“No, no,” the man answered easily, “That’s all right. I’ll see you when you’re ready.” He bowed congenially. “Carry on.”

“Wait!” Tony called frantically as the Viscount’s footsteps padded down the last step onto the floor of the theatre. “I’ve got this new invention I’m trying to get a patent on; you’ve gotta see it in action! Come on, it’ll only take a minute!”

The Viscount turned around curiously.

Tony took this as a cue to take a shot of his breath spray; he aimed it down his throat, settled himself, opened his mouth, and just as he was about to start the opening note, the set crashed down behind him.

Everyone jumped out of the way. Bannisters and props clattered onto the stage. The backdrop nearly landed on Tony; he leapt out of the way just in time with a high-pitched squeal. Steve shielded Sam from a paper mache elephant as it crashed to the ground right next to them. Chorus singers scattered everywhere. Clint and Bruce hugged each other out of surprise, eyes wide.

Once the set had done settling, the Viscount awkwardly made his exit.

Tony didn’t notice. He was furiously getting to his feet and yelling to anyone who would listen that he’d offered a _million_ times to engineer a better set, listing all the technical problems with this set piece and that prop, and _Why did no one ever listen to him?!_

But gradually, everyone’s attention had turned to Madame Romanov, who had stooped to pick an envelope off of the floor. The paper was thick and yellowed, sealed with a red wax skull. She broke open the seal and began reading in her calm, chilling voice. “It is a letter from the Opera Ghost,” she explained to Clint and Bruce, who had stopped hugging and were now self-consciously brushing imaginary dust off of their suits. “He welcomes you to his theatre. He demands that box five be left open for his use.”

“ _His_ theatre?!” Clint interrupted.

“Ghost?” asked Bruce, worried and pale.

“He also reminds you,” Madame Romanov continued calmly, “that his salary is due.”

“His _salary_?” Clint repeated incredulously.

“Yes,” Madame Romanov confirmed. “Master Fury used to pay him fifty thousand francs a month.”

“Fifty _thousand?!_ ” Now Clint was pale too.

“Um, excuse me!?” Tony called over top of them, hands on his hips. “I was in the middle of something important here!”

The trio ignored him. “But he’s not actually a _ghost,”_ Bruce pried.

Madame Romanov shrugged, face impassive. “Would you like to find out?” she asked in a low voice which suggested they’d really rather not.

Bruce and Clint exchanged a pinched and pale glance.

“FINE!” Tony shouted, throwing down his headpiece. “You won’t listen to me? That’s fine! You can have the set fall apart on _somebody else!_ You hear me?! I am _tired_ of this bullshit! Everyone ignores my advice, the set just nearly _killed_ somebody, and you’re not even listening to the _one guy_ who keeps offering to fix it! I’m done!” Tony stormed off. The startled crowd of extras jumped aside to let him through.

“Who was that?” asked Clint, vaguely annoyed.

“That,” said Bruce, watching Tony push someone out of his way with a frustrated noise and stomp backstage, “was our star.”

“Well, shit.” Clint frowned. “What are we gonna do now? It’s opening night!”

“We have a full house,” Bruce added, still pale. “We’ll have to refund all those tickets…”

“Steven Rogers could sing it, sir,” Madame Romanov announced calmly.

“What?” Clint turned unexpectedly to look at Madame Romanov.

“That’s your cue, dude!” Sam shoved Steve forward. Steve awkwardly stood in front of the crowd of still-shaken actors, uncertain.

“He has been well taught,” she explained calmly. She half-turned to face him. “Steve?” She indicated with a nod of her head that he should step forward and sing.

Steve eyed Clint, Bruce, and Madame Romanov uncertainly. Nevertheless, he stepped forward. He’d never been that comfortable taking center stage, but once he stepped into character, it wasn’t so hard. As long as it wasn’t _him_ everyone was looking at, he was fine. He closed his eyes, inhaled, and stepped forward until he was standing where Tony had been, center stage. _“Think of me,”_ he began softly, _“Think of me fondly when we’ve said good-bye… Remember me once in a while, please promise me you’ll try…”_

As he sang, his voice gathered strength. He managed to forget that his voice was the only sound, that he wasn’t in the right costume, that everyone was staring at him with interest. There was just him, singing a love song to the one person he’d always loved and never gotten the opportunity to tell. He poured that love into his song, channeled it into his character, pretended that love was for his romantic lead.

*

Next thing Steve knew, he was wearing a spectacular white dress, standing center stage, singing that same song in a spotlight to a crowd he could not see. He was grateful the stage lights washed out the crowd, because he didn’t want to think about the crowd. He only wanted to think about telling this other character to think of him.

Far away from the stage, in a balcony high above the crowd, the Viscount de Chagny was gripping the edge of the balcony with both hands. The ‘woman’ center-stage was wearing an elegant white dress with a huge poofy skirt, a large wig full of auburn curls, and a full face of makeup, but something about the shape of her nose… Something about the way she held herself, the way she smiled… _It couldn’t be._

He wished he was sitting closer. If he could only see his eyes, he’d be sure. He would never forget those eyes. Big and earnest and innocent-looking, blue as the summer sky. He regretted leaving rehearsal early. He needed to know the name of Tony Stark’s understudy.

That sweet little lopsided smile made the Viscount’s heart flip in his chest. _It had to be him._

The way ‘she’ blushed and ducked her head during her standing ovation was so achingly familiar.

The Viscount excused himself and made his way backstage.

He was halted, however, by a crowd of eager admirers who wanted to congratulate him and gush about the show. He was forced to slap on a people-pleasing smile and shake a dozen hands with every step he took.

Meanwhile, Steve had knelt in front of a picture of a woman, face turned ¾ towards the camera, brown hair in curls, lipstick reddening her perfect lips. He was silent, deep in thought, wishing with all his heart that Peggy could have been here tonight. He wondered if he would have made her proud.

_“There_ you are!” Sam exclaimed, entering the room. “I thought you might be back here.”

“Hey, Sam,” Steve greeted, wishing he’d disappear. His eyes swept sadly over Peggy’s picture.

“You were a hit!” Sam crowed, clasping Steve’s shoulder warmly. “They loved you! At this rate, they’re not even gonna remember Tony’s name! The crowd out there is going wild!”

“..You really think I was that good?” Steve asked self-consciously, heart aching.

“Of _course_ I think you were that good! But you don’t have to ask me- ask the crowd outside!”

“I’d rather not…” Steve turned away again, still kneeling.

“Hey,” Sam said in a softer voice, “..She would’ve been proud.”

“You think so?” Steve asked quietly.

“I _know_ so.”

Steve stared at Peggy’s picture a moment longer. “When Peggy was dying,” he said, somber, “she promised me I wouldn’t be alone. I didn’t know what she meant, but.. A few months after she died, I started getting visits from this-- well,” Steve said, cheeks heating, “an _angel._ -There’s no other explanation, Sam! An angel of music has been watching over me, teaching me how to sing.”

“Steve,” Sam said cautiously, “You know I respect your religion. And you know we both believe in the same God and all, but… Do you _really_ think it was an angel?”

“I _know_ it is, Sam.” Steve stood. “How else would he have found me? How else would he always know when I need help?”

“Have you ever seen this angel?”

“Well.. no, but-- I just _know,_ okay? It’s-- it’s hard to explain.”

“I’m sure it is,” Sam said uncertainly. He clapped Steve on the shoulder again. “But angel or no, you were amazing tonight. I’m proud of you.”

Steve smiled, tense around the edges. “Thanks Sam. ..Could I be alone for a minute?”

“Sure thing, man.” Sam’s hand slipped off Steve’s shoulder. “Take as long as you need.”

Steve stared silently at Peggy’s picture for a moment longer, wishing he could talk to her, wishing he could see her right now. She’d always been his strongest support system. He’d been devastated when she died. Madame Romanov had been kind enough to take him in afterward, so he didn’t have to return to the orphanage, but he’d never truly felt like he fit in here. He wished for the millionth time that there was some way Peggy could come back.

Chest heavy, Steve stood and gently blew out the candle next to Peggy’s face. He bid her a silent good-bye and headed to his room. Standing just outside it was Madame Romanov, holding a red rose with a black ribbon tied around its stem. “You did well tonight,” she congratulated in her cool, stoic voice. She handed Steve the rose. “He is very pleased with you.”

Steve took the rose, wondering who it could be from.

He headed into his room and closed the door behind him. To his surprise, the room was filled with flowers. Daffodils, daisies, orchids and roses and peonies, lilies, crocuses- too many flowers to name stood on every surface in multi-colored bundles. He wondered if this was what Tony’s dressing room looked like on a regular basis, and wondered how Tony still maintained the ability to smell. The scent was overpowering.

Steve cleared some flowers off his dresser and set the rose in front of his mirror. He glanced at his face, scrubbed clean of makeup, except for a bit of eyeliner lingering around his eyes. His narrow, bony face was just as unremarkable as it had always been. His dull blond hair fell the same way it always did, thicker on one side than the other, bangs falling down into his forehead. His blue eyes were sad and haunted, just like they’d always been.

He turned with only mild surprise when someone opened his door. “Forget something..?” he started to ask, but it wasn’t Natasha. It was-- _“Bucky?”_

The Viscount de Chagny closed the door awkwardly behind him, blushing. “It is you!” He swept a multi-colored bouquet of roses out from behind his back, only to falter once he realized the entire room was full of flowers. “Oh.” He laughed self-consciously. “Guess you don’t need these, then.”

“They’re _beautiful,_ ” Steve exclaimed, caring much less about the flowers than the person standing in front of him. Bucky had grown almost a foot taller than Steve, his chest and shoulders hand filled out handsomely, and his jaw had squared out, but his gray-blue eyes were the same, as was that adorable cleft chin. “What are you doing here?!”

“That’s how you greet your new benefactor?” Bucky remarked sarcastically.

Steve’s jaw dropped. “ _You’re_ the Viscount de Chagny?!”

“In the flesh,” Bucky confirmed with a nod.

“But,” Steve began, not knowing what to say. “I haven’t seen you in _years!”_

“Was wondering what happened to my favorite servant!” Bucky joked. He’d never seen Steve or his mother as servants.

“She died,” Steve said hollowly.

Bucky encircled Steve in his arms. “I know,” he said softly.

Bucky smelled as good as he looked. Steve tentatively hugged back.

“I’ve missed you,” Bucky confessed quietly.

Steve’s heart leapt. “I missed you too.”

Bucky pulled back slowly, eyes flickering down to Steve’s mouth before he pulled away completely and stood up. “Guess I’ll be seeing a lot more of you, huh?”

“Guess so.” _Had Bucky been about to kiss him?_

“Well,” Bucky said, staring at a bouquet across the room, expression shuttered. He turned a false smile on Steve. “What do you say we go out for dinner to celebrate?”

“Bucky..” Steve sighed, turning away. “I’m really tired. I think I’d rather get some sleep.”

For some reason, this response felt like a knife to the gut. Bucky’s smile dropped. “Okay. Fine.” He turned to open the door.

“Bucky,” Steve called out apologetically.

“No, no. I get it. Asthma and stuff. I get it.” Bucky opened the door. “Well.. See you later.”

“Bucky, wait!”

The door closed.

Steve sighed heavily, slumping over his desk. He reached out with one hand to pick up the rose. He twirled it back and forth between his fingers, watching the ribbon flicker. He’d been so happy to see Bucky again after all these years, except.. Of course Bucky had never felt the same way about him. It had been foolish to hope so.

The candles in his room flickered out in a sudden breeze.

Steve raised his head to see the source of the breeze; he sat up straight when he saw the full-length mirror at the end of the room had shifted. He stood slowly and padded over to investigate. A voice whispered, _“Insolent fool, this slave of fashion, basking in your glory.”_

“Angel?!” Steve searched the corners of his ceiling, hoping for a clue.

_“Look at your face in the mirror,”_ the voice whispered. _“I am there.. inside.”_

Steve hurried to the mirror. All he saw was his own face. He reached out to touch it with cold, trembling fingers.

The mirror shifted.

_“I am your angel of music,”_ the voice whispered back. The mirror slid to the side. Standing behind the mirror was a man, a full head taller than Steve, dressed impeccably in a black-and-white tuxedo and cape, his long brown hair pulled back in a small ponytail at the base of his neck. The man was wearing gloves on both his hands; it was with his right hand he was reaching out. _“Come to me, angel of music,”_ the man whispered. His chin was covered with stubble, his lips red and rosy. The upper half of the man’s face was obscured by a black mask.

Heart in his throat, Steve reached out and took his hand.

The man’s mouth curled up on one side. He turned, cape swirling slightly in the cool breeze coming from inside the damp, dark tunnel, and led Steve into a passageway which, from the looks of it, had been there for years. Steve dimly wondered how he’d never known about the tunnel before, but this was of extremely secondary importance, considering he was holding the hand of his apparently very corporeal angel.

Every so often, the man would turn to make sure Steve was still there, despite his firm hold on Steve’s pale hand. Steve kept trying to meet his eyes, but the man always turned away just before he could.

_“Sing, my angel,”_ the man urged.

The tunnel was dark and dripping, lit by torches which Steve never knew were there. Steve didn’t know what to sing. The man helped him into a boat. Keeping his face turned away from Steve, he helped Steve sit on the bottom of his boat- Steve had forgotten he was still wearing the dress, but remembered once he tried to sit down and the skirt nearly engulfed him.

_“Sing,”_ he urged again as he began to move the boat forward with a pole, which he pushed against the bottom of whatever body of water they were in. The sewer, perhaps? Runoff from rain water? It didn’t smell bad…

Steve began improvising, not knowing what else to do. Not knowing what else to sing about, he expressed his shock and elation at meeting his angel after all these years, his relief that he isn’t crazy, and as he was singing, the angel joined in.

The masked angel had the most beautiful voice Steve had ever heard. It filled the stony tunnel with its powerful baritone; Steve could practically feel the tones reverberating through the man’s chest. When he rejoined, his voice was decidedly smoother than it had been before. He and his angel sang together until they emerged in a room lit with a thousand candles. It was like an underground cathedral. Marble statues and gold-edged tapestries decorated the otherwise damp cavern. Steve glanced around, agape, unsure where to look. There was so much beauty and art all around.

Dazzled by the sheer beauty of it all, Steve silently allowed the masked man to take his hand and help him out of the boat. The man led him into his chamber, towards a magnificent organ at its center. He began to sing again, a soft, low song about the music of the night. Steve was once again enchanted by his voice. His lips dropped open. His eyelids dropped to half-mast. The masked man maneuvered behind him, hands caressing Steve’s torso as they went. Steve leaned back against him, head tilting back, eyes mostly closed. The spellbinding baritone continued his seductive song, urging Steve to give in to the music of the night. Steve hardly needed urging. The way the man’s hands were carefully running up and down Steve’s torso had his eyelids fluttering nearly all the way closed. Were it not for the huge poofy skirt, the angel would see exactly what he was doing to him.

The man whispered, _“Touch me, trust me,”_ in the middle of his song before continuing on, and Steve was absolutely powerless to resist. He wanted to turn around and run his hands down the masked man’s torso. He wanted to capture those reddened lips with his own. But the masked man didn’t let him. He held Steve against his front, cheek against the side of Steve’s forehead, stubble grazing Steve’s cheek when the man tilted his head. The masked man ran his stubbly jaw down Steve’s neck as he sang, placing a kiss against Steve’s fluttering pulse point.

“Thought angels were supposed to be holy,” Steve whispered.

“I’m a different kind of angel,” murmured the man in a shockingly familiar voice.

Steve abruptly turned around, taking the masked man by surprise. He had no choice but to let go and step back. “Wait-- you’re not an angel!”

“Yes I am!” the man insisted, drawing himself up uncertainly, clearly nervous.

“No, you’re-- What are you _doing_ here?! Have you been living here this whole time?!”

“I.. I don’t know what you’re talking about!” The masked man backed away a step, hands out in front of him defensively.

Steve screwed up his face in confusion. “What are you doing living down here if you’re rich? How did you--?” Something wasn’t adding up. He peered at the man’s chin. It was still covered in stubble. Steve slowly approached the man, curious and uneasy. The masked man kept backing away, looking more like a caged animal than like the prowling panther he’d resembled before. Steve cornered him against the organ. He yanked off the mask. Cold shock punched him in the gut.

“But… _how?”_ Steve didn’t understand.

The upper half of Bucky’s face was marred with old scars. The stubble on his chin was quite real. And unless he was imagining things, Bucky had the beginnings of crow’s feet at the corners of his eyes, and the beginnings of wrinkles furrowing his forehead.

“You weren’t supposed to see…” Bucky whispered, terror-stricken.

“Why the hell not?!” Steve threw down the mask. It clattered away down the steps. “What’s going on? You’ve been here the whole time?! Why didn’t you _tell_ me?”

“I.. I didn’t know how to explain..!” Bucky dodged to the side to escape Steve’s grip. He dove for his mask.

Steve pounded down the stairs after him. “Explain what! That you followed me to this place? That you’ve been.. secretly living in the basement, or wherever this is, for all these years, and you didn’t think to tell your _best friend_ that you were here?”

“Steve,” Bucky said shakily as he replaced his mask with trembling hands, “I’m not who you think I am.”

“Well then who the fuck are you? Does Bucky have a twin I should know about?!” Steve snapped angrily.

“It’s not what you think..”

“Well then why don’t you tell me what it is, because it looks an _awful_ lot like my best friend has been hiding out under the theater for the past ten years and pretending to be an angel just to make me feel better. You didn’t have to do that, Buck! Peggy is dead. I could have come to terms with that. But you had to fucking overhear that conversation, and follow me around, pretending to be an angel, only to invite me back here and pretend like I wasn’t going to find out- How stupid do you think I _am,_ Buck?!” Steve stood over him, fists clenched.

Bucky simply hugged himself and stared at the floor, at a loss for words.

Steve wasn’t done. “And what was with this ‘I haven’t seen you in years’ bullshit?! Why bother masquerading as some viscount, and watching my show, only to show up in my bedroom less than ten minutes later, in a completely different outfit, and a wig, and…” And something really wasn’t adding up. Had Bucky really had enough time to change all that? Was ten minutes really enough time to put on such a convincing wig, and makeup, and get into whatever tunnel they were currently in… and since when had Bucky been prone to such elaborate pranks? Steve’s anger faltered. “...Who _are_ you?”

“I’m not who you think I am,” he said quietly. The masked man stood, somber and grim. He pinned Steve with his ages-old, haunted gray eyes. “Forget you ever saw me.”

Steve frowned deeply. “What?! How can I forget? Bucky, what-? If you’re not Bucky then-?” His head was starting to hurt.

The masked man turned away. “You were never supposed to know it was me.”

“But I know now, so could you at least _tell_ me?”

The man who looked so much like Bucky stared into the distance. At last, he released a quiet, bitter laugh. “You wouldn’t believe me if I did.” He faced Steve once more. “It was a mistake taking you here. Come. They’ll be missing you.” He headed back towards the boat.

“That’s it?!” Steve practically yelled. “You’re just going to watch over me for years, take me into this-- this-- _cavern,_ I _finally_ get to see what you look like, and-- you’re just gonna take me back?!”

He was already in the boat, waiting somberly. He held out a gloved hand.

Steve picked up his skirt and got into the boat by himself, nearly falling into the water. He refused to take the masked man’s hand.

The boat ride back to the tunnel was very tense.

The masked man once more offered his right hand to help Steve out of the boat, but Steve once again refused to take it. The masked man sighed quietly and led Steve silently to his room.

“Don’t try to seek me out through the mirror again,” he warned quietly. “I’ll be sealing that passage.”

Steve whirled around, fists clenched. “You still haven’t answered me! Why bother going to all the trouble, only to not tell me who you are?!”

The masked man bit his lip, an ages-old sadness in his weathered eyes. “I just wanted to be close to you.” With that, the mirror closed.

*

Tony returned to the theatre on the condition that he designed and supervised the building of the next set. Everyone quickly agreed to these terms. Tony eagerly spent sometimes eighteen or twenty hours a day at the theatre, fueled by caffeine and pastries.

The set, to his credit, was absolutely spectacular.

Because Steve Rogers had done so well in his debut role, he was cast as one of the leads- the secret lover, playing opposite Tony.

Steve was enjoying this role, because all he had to do was pantomime. It felt so much easier, somehow, not having to speak or sing in front of an audience. His mind had been busy over the past two months, puzzling over the one-time appearances of Bucky and.. the other Bucky. His angel of music had been uncharacteristically silent. Steve had actually breathed a sigh of relief when, a few days before the play, all the candles had gone out in his room from a sudden breeze. But when he’d searched for the source of the breeze, he could find nothing, and when he called out, no one answered.

His heart had sank. And then once again, he’d been puzzled, frustrated, and angry.

But tonight his heart shone bright; Sam had received word that the Viscount de Chagny was indeed in the audience.

Steve’s entire face, his entire _body_ seemed to glow alight as he pranced about the stage, making the audience laugh and gasp at his antics. His chemistry with Tony was spectacular.

The pair held hands at the end and bowed for their standing ovation. Tony beamed at Steve, and Steve finally started to feel like he was where he belonged.

In no mood for crowds, Steve slipped outside once it was over. The roof of the theatre was covered in a thin layer of snow. Thick snowflakes were lazily spiraling down through the air. Steve drew his coat tighter around him and trod on the virgin snow.

“I thought I might find you here,” Bucky called out casually.

Steve whirled around to face him. “Bucky!”

Bucky closed the door behind him. “Hey.. Great job out there tonight.”

A smile warmed Steve’s face. “Thanks. I really enjoyed it.”

“I could tell!” Bucky walked towards him, hands in his pockets. “You and Tony work really well together.” Something uncertain flashed through Bucky’s eyes.

Bucky’s eyes, which were young and familiar and which lacked crow’s feet.

“Yeah,” Steve agreed, distractedly searching Bucky’s face for any trace of burn scars. There were none.

“So.. are you two an item?”

Stone cold fear shot through Steve. “Wh- what?”

“‘Cause I just wanna say,” Bucky drawled in that handsome, casual voice, “I know that happens a lot in theatre, guys falling for guys, and yeah, most of the world disapproves of that, but.. If he truly makes you happy, Steve, I ain’t gonna condemn you for it.”

“Bucky,” Steve whispered, breath forming a hot cloud. He searched Bucky’s face; he almost laughed. “I’m not in love with Tony.”

“You’re not?” Bucky said, voice rising, eyes shining. He caught himself and schooled his expression into something more casual. “Oh. ..You’re not. Well, even still-” he shrugged a shoulder. “-If you did fall in love with a guy, I wouldn’t hold it against you.”

“What makes you think I’d fall in love with a guy?” Steve pressed. “You tryin’ to set me up?”

Bucky’s eyes flickered uncertainly again. “No, no. ‘m just saying, I want you to be happy, Steve, and if that’s what’s gonna make you happy, then I say go for it.”

Steve laughed quietly and turned his head to watch the falling snow. “Right now I’m just happy to be with you.”

Bucky’s happiness surged. “Really?”

“Of course.” Steve’s lips tugged into an enigmatic little smile. “Haven’t seen you in years. I missed you.”

Bucky stepped closer, biting his lip uncertainly. His arms rose awkwardly, then dropped back at his sides again. “I missed you too.”

Steve’s eyes flickered over to Bucky’s chest, then away again. “So. Getting your money’s worth?”

“Out of the theatre?” Bucky asked, surprised. “‘Course I am. ‘Course.. Wasn’t expecting to pay so much every month so some ghost no one ever sees.” He turned to Steve like he expected a laugh, but Steve’s face was troubled and grave.

“Yeah,” he said quietly. “A ghost..”

“Stevie?” Bucky pried. “You okay?”

“Yeah, it’s just…” Steve debated what to tell Bucky. The whole thing sounded crazy. Who would believe any of it? That definitely wasn’t the impression he wanted to leave on his childhood friend, after not seeing him for so many years. He didn’t want Bucky to think Steve had grown up crazy. “..Never mind, it’s nothing.”

“You sure?”

Steve hugged himself. “Just cold.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “That’s my Stevie,” he said, wrapping his arms around Steve and pulling him close. “Shivering, even the most expensive coat money can buy.”

“It was a gift!” Steve protested self-consciously.

“I know. From me.” Bucky grinned on top of Steve’s head.

“Still don’t know why you’re tryin’ to spoil me,” Steve muttered, huddling against Bucky’s ever-warm chest.

“Because you deserve the best.” It was said lightheartedly, but Bucky had echoed similar sentiments throughout the years, and they never failed to warm Steve’s heart.

They stayed that way for as long as they could rationalize was socially acceptable. Neither wanted to let go, but eventually, Bucky did, patting Steve on the arm and saying, “Guess we better get you back inside, huh?” He smiled and led Steve inside.

Steve privately thought that the warmth of the theatre was nothing compared to the warmth of Bucky’s arms.

*

Behind a snow-covered statue, James Buchanan Barnes sank to his knees, flesh hand clutching his heart. How many years had he missed? How many times had he longed to wrap his own Steve in just such an embrace?

He didn’t know.

Fractals of memory flashed through his mind, like pieces of broken glass glinting in the sun. Every single one featured a skinny boy who looked just like this version of Steve Rogers- bony and small, with the most stubborn, determined face he’d ever set eyes on. He was a nightmare dressed as a dream.

Or was that what _he_ was?

He looked down at his gloved hands, one flesh, one metal below his sleeves. He remembered pieces of how he’d gotten the metal arm. He remembered falling from the train, screaming in terror as he fell away from the one man he wanted to save. His last thought before he’d hit the ground had been, _At least it was me, not you._

The echo of memories taunted him; a cold body shivering against his at night, a gentle smile. The look in Steve’s eyes when he’d announced he was joining the 107th, and shipping out tomorrow morning. The look in Steve’s eyes when Bucky was punching him within an inch of his life. The look in Steve’s eyes when--

It all hurt so much.

And now, he was here- in the wrong century, in the wrong dimension, with no memory of how he’d gotten the scars on his face.

There was nothing he wanted more than to find a way back, but he’d been sent into a place and time where that technology was impossible to come by. He was stranded.

Some nights, he’d look, alone, at the stars, and he wondered if somehow, Steve was looking at them too.

But tonight was cloudy.

Even the stars were gone.

*

Clint Barton and Bruce Banner hosted an extravagant masquerade ball to celebrate yet another smash hit show. Every night, the theatre had been packed. Their profits were soaring. Tony Stark and Steve Rogers seemed to be the perfect combination onstage, even if their relationship backstage was comprised primarily of snark and sarcastic remarks, and half the time, one was complaining about the other being impossible.

The Viscount was, of course, present for the ball. He was one of the few who didn’t bother with a mask; he didn’t care if people recognized him there. In fact, he was searching the crowd for one person who he hoped _would_ recognize him.

Their eyes met across the crowded room. Drawn like a moth to a flame, Steve and Bucky walked slowly towards each other, ignoring all the fantastically costumed people dancing around them. “Wow,” Bucky said.

“You..” Steve said at the same time. He paused. “You look.. _great.”_

_“You_ look great!”

Steve took in Bucky’s blue-and-black ensemble, the way his suit perfectly fit his broad chest and shoulders, tapered down at the waist, the way his arm muscles were visible through the fabric whenever Bucky raised his arm…

“Do you..” Bucky started, but stopped himself.

“Do you want to dance?” asked a woman in a mask who had just taken hold of Bucky’s right arm.

Bucky sent Steve one layered glance before schooling his face into a charming smile and facing the woman. “Of course I would!” He bowed. The woman curtsied. And so they made their way onto the dance floor.

He was still watching them dance when he received a tap on the shoulder. Much to his surprise, another woman in a mask was asking if _he_ would like a dance. Not knowing what else to say, Steve said yes.

It was almost funny, the way Steve’s neck craned to watch Bucky whenever he could, the way he always missed Bucky doing the same, the way Bucky tried to watch Steve whenever he could, wishing he could break away from his partner, and yet every time he saw Steve, Steve’s eyes were fixed on those of the woman he was dancing with, or his back was turned.

This probably could have gone on all evening, were they not interrupted by an intimidating presence dressed head-to-toe in black and red, prowling down the stairs at the center of the room and glaring at everyone through his black mask.

All the dancing stopped. Everyone stared at the stranger.

Instead of speaking, the mysterious stranger sang. He announced that he was the famed Opera Ghost, a title which he revealed with a nose wrinkled in a snarl. There were gasps all around. He went on to sing that he’d written a play, which he pulled out of his jacket and threw down at his feet. The play was bound with black ribbon. He sang a demand that Steve Rogers would star in it. A few eyes flickered over to Steve, who was watching the masked man with grave trepidation. The stranger announced that he had written the play for Steve. Tony Stark was absolutely not to star in it.

The man had a sword at his waist. He drew his sword in one threatening motion and whispered _“Or else.”_ The whisper was really more of a growl.

Then, he sheathed his sword and exited as dramatically as he had appeared.

Steve abruptly darted out of the room.

The Viscount, however, was glaring after the Opera Ghost. With a split-second decision, Bucky darted after him. He followed the red-and-black coattails down hallway after hallway, through a secret passageway hidden in a wall, down a hall he never knew existed, and landed in a room full of mirrors. The red-and-black form seemed to be taunting him. Bucky turned this way and that, rapier drawn, trying to find a path which wasn’t blocked by a mirror.

He nearly jumped out of his skin when he felt a hand on his shoulder.

“I wouldn’t suggest following him,” Madame Romanov warned impassively, lowering her hand.

“Tell me everything you know,” Bucky growled.

Madame Romanov bit her lip, gaze askance. Her deliberation of this topic was the most emotional Bucky had ever seen her. “All right,” she said at last. “Follow me.”

She led Bucky to her personal quarters, Bucky seething all the way. Every time he tried to start up the conversation, Madame Romanov silenced him with a warning glance and a cautionary finger, until they were safely behind a closed door. “Can we talk now?!”

“Yes,” Madame Romanov replied tonelessly as she lit a candle. “We can talk now.”

“Who the fuck is this guy?! Why does he seem to think he has some claim on Steve? Why are we paying him money every month? Who is he, and what does he do?!”

Madame Romanov drew in a deep breath. “I think you’d better sit down.”

“I can stand just fine, thank you!”

Her mouth ticked briefly to one side, silently saying ‘I doubt it, but whatever you say.’ She took a seat next to a stained-glass window. “I took ballet lessons from a very young age. Russia starts girls as early as three or five years old. I’ve been doing ballet for nearly as long as I’ve been walking.” She glanced to make sure Bucky was listening and went on. “We trained every day. If we messed up, we were flogged. If we forgot a move, we were made to repeat it until our legs gave out from under us. We were forced to walk around on-point. We learned not only ballet, but contortions, gymnastics- how to use our bodies as a weapon. I realized this when I was about eight years old.

“I was nine when I escaped. I went away on a train.. A stowaway. I was nearly caught. Had to catch another train.. And so on, until I ended up here.

“It wasn’t a surprise when no one wanted to take me in. A thin little girl with no family, who didn’t speak a word of anything besides Russian.. It’s a wonder I didn’t die in the streets. But there was a man with an eyepatch who took me in. He treated me like his own daughter, fed me, clothed me, let me practice ballet- _real_ ballet. He told me I showed promise, and let me live in his theatre.

“I’d been living here for less than two years when I found him.” She stared at the stained glass window as though she could see her memories through the glass. “I was out taking a walk, on my way to spend what little money I’d managed to earn, when a trail of smoke caught my eye. Curious, I followed the trail. It led to a crater in the ground, where a man was curled up on the ground, frowning- not like he was angry, more like.. confused. He was dressed in very strange clothes, wearing black head to toe, and his shirt only had one sleeve. That was the weirdest thing about this man-- his left arm was made of metal.

“I started to back away, but he reached out with his normal hand and said ‘Wait!’ He was scared. I couldn’t just leave him there. So I took him back home with me.”

“And he’s been here ever since,” Bucky finished for her, incredulous. “Madame Romanov, that story sounds _crazy.”_

“I know,” she said simply. “But it’s the truth.”

“Okay,” said Bucky impatiently, rubbing his temples. “That tells me how you found him, but it doesn’t tell me who he is or why he’s so fixated on Steve.”

An enigmatic little smirk curled her lips. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

“Try me,” Bucky growled.

“..He’s an old friend. And he thinks Steve is truly talented. He’s been living in this theatre for over ten years. If he’s taken a liking to Steve, it’s probably because Steve is genuinely talented.”

Bucky narrowed his eyes. “There’s something you’re not telling me.”

“There’s something _you’re_ not telling _Steve,”_ she countered.

Bucky closed off his expression. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Maybe not,” she granted, wearing that enigmatic little smirk again, her jade-green eyes too penetrating, “but I think you should tell him.”

*

The following day was cold and snowy. Peggy had made an appearance in Steve’s dream the night prior, leaving Steve with a heavy ache in his chest. It had been eleven years since her death. Yet her loss still hurt as though it had happened last December. He could so clearly remember her eyes, her hands, her laugh. She had taken him in so warmly after his mother had died, only to succumb to the same illness two years later.

Steve had always felt partially responsible for her death. He’d wondered for years if he somehow carried the illness that stole his mothers from him; it had taken him five winters to realize Madame Romanov was not going to die of the same curse. But perhaps that was because Madame Romanov had never been quite as much of a mother to him as Peggy had.

Peggy Carter had been everything Steve aspired to be. She had been confident, well-liked, witty and well-spoken. She was a master of her own destiny. Even living in a man’s world, she still managed to get what she wanted and achieve whatever she set her mind to. The world had truly lost someone great when a simple illness robbed the world of Peggy Carter.

He recalled holding her hand on her deathbed- cold, yet her grip was still strong- how she had coughed between words as she told him she’d send an angel to watch over him, that he’d never truly be alone.

But Steve had gone too long sustaining himself on memories. He needed guidance. He needed to move forward. He was finally doing something which he knew would make Peggy proud, and he needed to tell her… But he also needed to say good-bye.

Steve knelt in the snow in front of her tombstone. The cold stone angels seemed too hard and unfeeling in comparison with his warm memories of Peggy, so alive. He hoped that wherever she was, she was happy… and proud. He reached out to grasp the top of her tombstone. “I miss you,” he said. His words sounded small in the snowy graveyard.

“You loved her here, too,” said a quiet and all-too-familiar voice behind him.

Steve turned to face the Opera Ghost. His mask was still in place. His black cloak billowed around him.

The masked man faltered. “Guess it doesn’t matter what reality we’re in,” he said. “You always love her…”

Steve swiped a tear from his cheek. “She was my mother.” He stood.

“Your mother..!” the masked man repeated with surprise.

“I know we don’t have the same last name.. But yeah. She was.. She was like my mother.”

“And yet you lost her here, too,” the masked man mused somberly.

Steve frowned. “What are you saying? What do you mean ‘here, too’? Are you a time traveler?”

“I’m--”

But before he could answer, a white horse galloped into the graveyard, and the Viscount de Chagny swept down off the horse’s back with his sword drawn. “Get away from him!” he snarled, lunging at the masked man.

Reacting on instinct, the masked man drew his sword. Their blades clashed. The pair of them ducked and swirled and parried, traversing the graveyard like their own personal playground. The Viscount was aggressive, angry. The masked man seemed startled and confused, reacting at first purely out of defense, but as the fight wore on, something in him snapped. His eyes turned fierce. He gave as well as he got. The Viscount seemed angrily pleased with this and chased after him all the harder.

“Stop!!” Steve pleaded, but the dueling pair ignored him. They ducked and thrusted, turned and twirled, blades clashing over and over, striking a coatsleeve here, a cheek there. It was only once the masked man gained the advantage, that he managed to get the Viscount on his back in the snow and held his sword to his throat, gritting his teeth like a snarling animal, both breathing heavily, that Steve’s final cry of “STOP!!” was heard.

The masked man stood abruptly, his sword clattering to the ground, eyes wide with horror as he breathed heavily and processed what he’d almost done.

The Viscount took advantage of the moment in order to get to his feet, pull Steve up onto the white horse with him, give one final glare to the masked man, and ride back off to the theatre. They left the masked man standing alone in the snow.

*

Both Clint Barton and Bruce Banner remarked on the potency of the play. The story was so heartbreaking, so passionate. Despite hours and hours of auditions, the only person suitable for the lead role opposite Steve was Tony Stark. And despite the Opera Ghost’s warning not to cast Tony as the lead, they were too tired at that point to consider anyone else.

Everyone was nervous about the performance. The atmosphere was akin to the doomed waiting for a bomb about to drop. But Tony worked hard to raise everyone’s spirits, and soon the theatre was alive and thrumming with the energy of opening night.

The curtains opened.

Tony and Steve stood side-by-side, both wearing blue jackets. Fake snow covered the ground. “Another day, another fight, eh, Cap?” Tony’s character said.

“Yeah,” Steve’s character said. “But we’ll beat ‘em, Sarge. We always do.”

They jumped onto the roof of a prop train. They flailed and pretended to lose their balance. Wind from offstage blew their hair back from their faces. “Are you sure this is a good idea?” Tony’s character called uncertainly.

“Come on, Sarge!” Steve’s character called back playfully. “Have I ever led us into a fight we couldn’t win?”

They disappeared through a trapdoor in the stage. The lights dimmed. Stage hands scrambled to push the open train car on the stage. Steve and Tony re-entered from backstage. When the lights came up, they were in the train car, fighting some unseen foe. Steve’s character’s expression turned from triumphant to terrified in an instant. “BUCKY!” he shouted, making a beeline for Tony’s character, who had just caught an invisible gunshot to the gut and tumbled out of the train and was clinging to the outside of the traincar. Steve’s character climbed out onto the side of the traincar as well. “Bucky, take my hand!” He reached out.

But Tony’s character couldn’t reach. “I’m sorry,” he said, just loudly enough for the audience to hear, and he fell through a hole in the stage, screaming as he went.

Steve’s character clung to the side of the traincar, shivering in the wind. The lights went out.

When the lights came back up, Steve’s character was dressed in a white undershirt and tan trousers. He was acting friendly with Sam Wilson’s character and speaking cheerfully as though Tony’s character had never existed.

Meanwhile, backstage, Tony was making his way to his dressing room to put on the all-black ensemble for his next scene. He reached habitually for his throat spray, which worked every bit as well as he’d bragged it would, and gave his mouth a spritz. He set the container down. He shook his head and swayed. He reached for the black coat and tumbled to the floor, eyes unfocused.

A dark figure stood over him, waiting until Tony succumbed to unconsciousness. He swept out of the room with a sweep of his black cloak. The figure was wearing a face mask which made him impossible to recognize. He stalked backstage and waited for the scene to change.

“I’m in pursuit!” Steve’s character said. He ran offstage and almost smacked straight into the masked figure. “Sorry!” he said, scrambling to change into his red-and-blue outfit.

A stage hand scrambled up to him. “Tony!” they hissed. “Aren’t you supposed to enter from the other side?!”

The hooded figure swept off his hooded cape. Brown shoulder-length hair tumbled down, framing his masked face. He was wearing black head to toe, a strange outfit with lots of buckles, and his left arm was made of metal. “I enter where I want,” he growled.

He prowled onto the stage. Steve entered shortly after. Both assumed battle stances. As soon as the lights went up, they engaged in a semi-choreographed spar. Steve had been trained in ballet, and was trying to go through the fight just like they’d rehearsed, but Tony’s character wasn’t reacting the way he was supposed to. “Did you forget your moves?” he whispered when they were locked in a battle embrace.

Silently, the masked man flipped Steve over. Steve, caught off-guard, used the momentum and landed on his feet. The audience gasped. They were utterly enthralled. Tony’s character fought silently, meeting Steve’s character move for move, rough and improvised, yet with a deadly elegance. He held a knife to Steve’s throat. Then, just as the theatre held its collective breath and everyone wondered if Steve was about to truly be killed, the masked man ran offstage. Steve’s character was left onstage, panting and gripping his throat. The lights went down.

“Why didn’t you _kill him?”_ an angry old man demanded when the lights went back up.

The masked man hung his head. “I couldn’t,” he rasped, as though his voice had been unused for years.

The angry old man stood and prowled towards the masked man, much as one would approach a naughty child. “Did I teach you _nothing?_ You have the skills, Soldier. Why did you not finish your mission?”

The masked figure clenched his fists. “I knew him.”

The angry old man’s expression turned cold. “He’s been conscious for too long,” he muttered to two men in doctor’s outfits. “Wipe him.”

“No!” the masked figure protested. The two doctor figures forced him into a chair and made him lean back. “NO!” he pleaded, louder, chest heaving. His hands clenched the armrests. Conjured lightning crackled throughout the chair. “ _NOOOOOOO!”_ he screamed, voice cracking. The stage went black. The only lights were the lightning crackling in the chair. After a moment, those went out as well.

The lights came back up, on the same scene, except the masked man was leaning forward, the doctors stood at ease on either side of the chair, and the old man was standing in front of the masked man like a disappointed father. “What is your name?”

“The Asset has no name,” the masked man responded tonelessly.

The old man nodded at this response. “How do you feel?”

“The Asset does not feel,” the masked man responded tonelessly.

“Do you see this man?” The old man held out a piece of parchment in front of the masked man’s face.

“Yes,” the masked man responded tonelessly.

“Kill him.”

The lights went out.

When the lights came up again, Steve’s character was wearing an even more brightly colored outfit than before, with more red and some white mixed in with the blue. The masked man stood across from him, staring at him calmly. They were standing on a platform elevated ten feet above the stage. It looked somewhat like a bridge.

“I know who you are,” Steve’s character said.

The masked man flinched. “No you don’t!” he rasped.

“Yes, I do,” Steve’s character insisted, taking a step forward. “Please, don’t make me do this, Sarge.”

“You’re not my Captain anymore!” the masked man growled. He leapt for Steve. The pair engaged in highly dangerous hand-to-hand combat, which was completely one-sided. Steve’s character did nothing but duck, dodge, and twirl out of the way, always moving backwards.

_“Why won’t you hit back?!”_ the masked man demanded.

Steve’s character threw down his weapon. “I’m not gonna fight you.”

“Why not?! Whoever you think I am, I’m not _him_ anymore!”

“Yes you are,” Steve’s character insisted. He let the masked man pin him to the stage.

“No I’m not!” The masked man punched Steve repeatedly. He pulled back each punch so they only looked real, but Steve improvised well enough that they looked painful.

“You’re my _friend,”_ Steve’s character insisted, pleading.

“You’re my _mission!”_ the masked man growled. He drew back his metal fist to punch Steve in the face again.

“Then finish it,” Steve’s character said, just loud enough for the audience to hear. “‘Cause I’m with you till the end of the line.”

The masked man’s fist remained suspended in the air. He breathed heavily. He drew his fist back once more, and punched the floor next to Steve’s head. The platform opened beneath them. Steve fell out of sight. The masked man dove after him.

The masked man ignored the fact that the play wasn’t over. He grabbed Steve, picked him up, and carried him down tunnel after tunnel at a flat-out run.

“Bucky, what’s going on?” Steve shouted over the wind rushing past his ears.

“I remember,” the masked man replied in a choked-up voice. A tear slipped down the side of his mask.

“Remember what?”

_“Everything,”_ he whispered. His heart was pounding. He set Steve down on the floor of his candlelit cavern. “I remember everything!” He held his head in his hands, leaning over, as though the memories hurt.

“Isn’t that a good thing?” Steve asked, not entirely sure what was going on.

“NO!” the masked man screamed. He tore his hands away from his face, panting. “Steve,” he rasped. “I’ve killed so many people.”

“It’s okay.” Steve stepped forward tentatively, hand outstretched. “You didn’t mean to..”

“YES I DID!” he shouted. He sharply backed away, holding his head again. “I killed all of them. Every. Single. One of them.” His voice shook, but whether with fear or rage, Steve could not tell.

He stepped forward again, hand outstretched. “But you didn’t want to,” Steve guessed.

The masked man shook his head ‘no’ frantically. “It didn’t matter if I _wanted_ to. I WASN’T _ALLOWED_ TO WANT!”

“Bucky,” Steve said, a weird feeling sinking over him. “That play… That… That actually _happened_ to you, didn’t it,” he realized.

The masked man’s silence confirmed it.

Steve stepped forward, closing the distance between them. He covered Bucky’s hands with his own, smoothing his cool fingers over Bucky’s tense ones, flesh and metal. “Oh, Bucky..!” he said softly. The masked man flinched, but did not back away. His fingers slowly eased. Steve gently removed his mask and looked him in the eyes. Those haunted, scared gray eyes. Steve’s heart really went out to him. He stepped even closer, bringing their bodies only an inch apart. “I’m so sorry I couldn’t save you…”

The man’s eyes widened and filled with tears. His chest heaved with the effort of his breaths.

Steve stood on tiptoe and gently kissed his mouth.

The Viscount de Chagny skidded into the room at exactly that moment. He’d grown deeply uneasy the moment there had been an announcement that the play had been delayed. A quick dash backstage had confirmed that Steve had never returned after his last scene. No one had seen him. Madame Romanov had reluctantly showed him a secret passage, which had led him straight to this room.

The last thing he expected was to see Steve’s arms wrapped around another man, their mouths pressed together in a heartfelt kiss, the other man tentatively snaking his arms around Steve’s tiny waist and kissing back.

“What the hell is going on here?!” the Viscount demanded.

The pair jumped apart as though stung.

“Bucky!” said Steve, staring at the Viscount.

But the Viscount was no longer staring at Steve. His boggled eyes were fixed on the man who looked exactly like him, except older, and with longer hair, and.. and burn marks, all across his forehead, scars and slashes marring the upper half of his face.

The man who looked like the Viscount stared right back, as though he’d just seen a ghost.

A long, tense moment passed where all they did was stare at each other, the Viscount growing increasingly unsettled, the other man going from shock to fear to deep, haunted sadness. “Go to him,” he rasped, dropping his gaze. He shoved Steve forward.

Steve turned to face the older version of Bucky. “But what about you?”

The older version of Bucky smiled ruefully. “There’s probably an angry mob headed for me any moment. You two go, get out of here.” He stooped to pick up his mask and put it back on. He turned away. “Be happy.”

“Steve?” The Viscount stepped forward, face set in unhappy determination. “Do you love him?”

The older version of Bucky stopped in his tracks.

“Of course I love him,” Steve said, a touch too quiet. “He’s you.”

“You… love me?” the older version of Bucky turned to face Steve once more.

“Always have,” Steve admitted, looking at the Viscount.

The Viscount frowned. Then it dawned on him what Steve was really saying. “You love me?”

“I’m sure your Steve loved you just as much, too,” Steve told the older version of Bucky.

Distant rumbling alerted them that yes, there were currently dozens of people headed for the candlelit cavern. The older version of Bucky eyed the ceiling uneasily. “I don’t think he did,” he said quietly, with a sad little smile. “But thank you.”

There was a distant chorus of shouts.

“Now go,” he insisted. He strode across the cavern like a man on the run.

“Steve?” The Viscount held out his hand.

Steve hesitated only a moment, watching after the masked man, wishing there was some way he could help, but if he was anything like his character in _The Winter Soldier,_ he would be all right. He took the Viscount’s hand. “Bucky,” he said softly.

The Viscount led Steve back the way he’d come. The shouting filled the cavern and turned to confused murmurs and mixed exclamations which neither of them could clearly hear. Bucky stopped before the end of the secret tunnel and turned to face Steve. “You know,” he said uncertainly, “When I said I wouldn’t mind if you fell in love with a _guy,_ that’s not exactly what I was expecting.”

“So you don’t..?” Steve’s gut sank. “You don’t feel the same?”

Something flickered across Bucky’s face. “I never said that.” He pulled Steve close and kissed him.

**Two Years Later**

 

“C’mon, Steve, you’re gonna be late for-- Oh.” Tony Stark stopped, the words hanging halfway out of his mouth, hand on the doorknob, only mildly surprised by the passionate kiss he’d walked in on.

“He’ll be there in a minute,” the Viscount said, ducking his head to kiss Steve’s lips again. Steve happily kissed him back.

Tony rolled his eyes in fake exasperation. “Yeah, yeah.” He closed the door, then opened it again. “Wait. Have either of you seen Madame Romanov? I can’t find her anywhere.”

“Haven’t seen ‘er,” Bucky murmured, kissing Steve again.

Steve fought to free his mouth. “Did you check backstage?”

Bucky captured his mouth again and pulled Steve closer.

“Where do you think I’ve been, genius?”

Bucky flipped him off without looking and purposely deepened the kiss.

“Yeah, yeah, I’m going.” He closed the door for real this time.

Seriously though. Where was Madame Romanov?

He asked a few more people, but no one had seen her recently. He even tried asking Clint and Bruce, who were sitting in their balcony. Both shrugged and asked if he’d looked backstage.

Tony had no choice but to tell himself not to worry about it so he could get on with the play.

Steve showed up at the last second, straightening his costume.

“Decided to stop kissing your boyfriend long enough to join me onstage tonight?” Tony teased.

Steve rolled his eyes. “Don’t I, _every_ night?”

“I’m just saying,” Tony lilted, “It’s kind of hard to put on a show without our star.”

“Good thing you’re here, then.” He slapped Tony on the shoulder.

Tony grinned.

They both walked onstage.

*

Natasha Romanov had dropped her groceries and dashed out of the supermarket the moment she’d overheard someone gossipping about the diversion stopping up traffic a few blocks away. Not a single person stood in her path after she leveled them with her trademark glare. Her feet pounded on the pavement, lungs burning with effort. Sure enough, the crater was still smoking. “Out of the way!” she shouted, warding off curious onlookers with a stiff arm.

Crouched in the crater, hands over his head, was a man in a red, white, and blue outfit. He slowly raised his head and looked around. A blue helmet with an A on the forehead and wings on the sides obstructed the upper half of his face, but his sky-blue eyes peered around in hope and confusion. “Bucky?” he asked.

“It’s about time,” Natasha murmured, holding her cloak around her. “Captain,” she greeted.

The star-spangled man met her eyes. “Natasha?!” he gasped.

“I was wondering when you’d show up,” she said as though they weren’t surrounded by dozens of flabbergasted onlookers. “Someone’s been looking for you.”


End file.
